


Naked With a Santa Hat.  1/1

by punky_96



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 11:58:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13189605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punky_96/pseuds/punky_96
Summary: Re-post from LJ.  I also realized it was holiday time and maybe I should grab the holiday fics.Prompt: from hahns_girl: Miranda waking up with a hangover wearing nothing but a santa hat, and not quite remembering how she got there - how she got there (wherever there may be) and who she's with I'll leave to you!Summary: A holiday art show in Chelsea leads to some revelry… FYI a little angsty.Author’s Note: I started with fluffy mystery and came to angsty island with one little line… Sigh.





	Naked With a Santa Hat.  1/1

_**Naked With A Santa Hat**_  
  
The sound of a radio slowly began to creep into her consciousness. Eyes still shut, she wrinkled her brow, lines appearing between her eyes. She didn’t think she wanted the radio on, but it was on, so she must have wanted it. Sensing that didn’t really make sense, she thought that perhaps she didn’t want it on and that she didn’t want to get up today. Her head was heavy. She hadn’t moved enough to tell if it ached or not, but she could tell already that she didn’t want to even try. Breathing deep, she ran her hand up to smooth the pillow out and settle her cheek against it. It felt rougher against her skin than it should, but without thinking too hard about it she figured that went along with the lead in her head.  
  
Moments later the radio volume rose, the door slammed against the wall, a terrible jumble of things hitting the floor and a feminine yelp had her standing bolt upright facing a young African American lady who only vaguely looked familiar. It was clear that the woman shared her shock with Miranda. Looking at the items on the floor she thought, ‘Artist?’ Then she closed her eyes against the wave of nausea that the lancing pain in her head triggered.  
  
“M-m-miranda?” The wide eyed woman stuttered. Her hand reached up to cover her mouth as her eyes somehow managed to dilate even wider than before as recognition struck.  
  
Unfortunately for Miranda there was no equal or greater spark of recognition. She nodded, immediately regretting the action. Breaking the woman’s brown-eyed gaze, Miranda looked around the room. Personal living seemed to be the secondary purpose of the room, art seemed to be the primary focus. Bare feet growing cold from the concrete turned and, with minimal head movements, Miranda sat on the edge of the bed.  
  
Shaking her head at her guest, the shocked woman began to pick up her supplies. She awkwardly dumped them out onto the counter along the wall by the door. Looking at the floor and her own shirt she was glad that none of the paints had burst or leaked on either. Pivoting on her hand-me-down Jimmy Choos, she brought her hands to her hips as she took in the appearance and state of her guest. Long legs lead up to a surprisingly sexy patch of silver hair at their apex. Her abdomen was very toned, though it did reflect her child bearing years. Forcing herself not to linger too long over the scar, she dragged her brown eyes up the slope of her stomach and over the twin peaks of rosy nipples erect in the chill of the room. Her own breasts reacting to the vision before her, the artist took her hands off her hips and crossed her arms over her chest. Miranda was leaning back, resting on her hands. The delight of this pose was the sun shining down on her like some kind of holiday angel, complete with breasts standing out and long neck elongated in a delightfully teasing way. Miranda in HER bed only meant one thing and she was no angel. She was the devil indeed.  
  
Flexing her fingers into fists so that she didn’t give in to the temptation to reach out, the quiet observer squeaked when with a sigh the woman tilted her head back up, her breasts shifting with the movement and her blue eyes landing on her with a flash of fire that could be anything from recognition to desire to outrage. As quickly as the squeak came, it was followed by the urge to laugh or scream. Once again her hand came up to cover her mouth and quickly tamp down on that reflex. It would not do to laugh at Miranda Priestly—not even if you found her in your bed, naked, with a Santa Hat on. Screaming would be entirely useless, she was sure of it. It was clear from Miranda's silence that she was hung over and didn’t recognize her. Shaking her head at the whole messed up situation, the woman realized that Miranda didn’t even realize that she was naked.  
  
Brown eyes stared into blue in wonder. There was no denying the appeal of this woman. She took back everything she had ever thought she knew about her. She also wondered what to do next. ‘Tiger by the tail,’ didn’t even begin to cover this. Her questions and doubts were rapidly breeding in her mind to the point that she seriously considered turning and walking out, leaving the building completely. ‘Fuck.’ She mentally cursed herself, this woman, and the other woman who was absent.  
  
Looking down at the foot of the bed, she found out where to start at least. “Clearly, you need a minute.” Stalking across the room in four steps, the artist scooped up a red lacy strip of fabric with her pinky. “I’ll be downstairs.” The artist held them out to Santa’s Little Helper, and then she left the way she came.  Emotions were firing like fireworks in her brain as she descended the stairs, slammed the radio off, and put a pot of strong coffee on. Her dreams of seeing where inspiration took her were long gone.  
  
***  
  
Flabbergasted Miranda looked at the panties held in her lap. The heaviness in her head was nothing compared to the mountain of mortification that had just landed on her shoulders. She was naked in this woman’s place and had very few clues as to how or why. Although why could easily be explained by ‘holiday cheer’ and too long suppressed desires. The only clue she could pull from the bog of her hung over mind was that this woman was the artist/curator of the show she had attended the previous evening. It was likely then that she was in the space above the gallery in Chelsea. This gave Miranda some amount of peace. It wasn’t like an up and coming artist in New York would try to cross her. She couldn’t have spent more than a minute talking to her the whole evening though, which really confused Miranda. Nearly falling over as she stepped into her panties, Miranda was thankful that she had worn a skirt. The bra proved to be a bit of a challenge, but she managed. Trying to pull on her partially buttoned blouse, Miranda was horrified to discover that she had on a festive Santa Hat.  
  
This realization brought on another wave of nausea. As Miranda settled again on the edge of the bed, she couldn’t help but wonder if the place even had a bathroom. It was this thought that finally put her in motion. Her head wasn’t going to get any clearer sitting here and she either needed to talk to the girl or make her escape. Pulling the sheet flat on the bed and leaving the Santa Hat, Miranda looked around hoping that her shoes, phone, and jacket, or did she have a bag… Well, she hoped that they were somewhere else because they were clearly not in this room. The wooden steps didn’t inspire much trust, but Miranda wasn’t sure that she could hurry down them anyway in her present condition. The smell of coffee brought a smile as she entered the art gallery. The loud phone conversation wiped the smile right back off.  
  
“Why is Miranda fucking Priestly naked with a Santa Hat in my studio?” The woman was pacing back and forth near the front of the gallery. The light reflecting from outside into the gallery cast her in shadow. It might have made a good photograph, if Miranda had been so inclined. Looking around she spied her shoes near the door. Her reluctant host continued to pace and talk, while Miranda stepped into a three inch high slice of her power. She immediately felt marginally better. The empty coffee cup next to a nearly full pot and another doctored coffee was an open invitation. Really, why not? She had already ended up here, so why not have a cup? “I can’t believe you did this.” The woman’s voice rose, which perplexed Miranda. “NO, there’s nothing to talk about.” The woman stopped and leaned her back against the wall. The heel of her hand pressed against her forehead. “I’ll stay here tonight.” The woman breathed deep as she obviously fought to maintain her cool. “Just be gone by tomorrow night.”  
  
Miranda’s blood froze in her veins. She didn’t know this woman, had not slept with her. She had never heard those words before, but she had heard that tone before. She had been this woman—broken by a faithless lover who had thrown her away in one way or another.  
  
Shaking, Miranda put the coffee cup back down on the counter. She hadn’t even taken a sip. She had become THAT woman and it didn’t settle well with her.  
  
Brown eyes opened and stared at her then, assessing how much she had heard and how much of it she could have understood. She stepped closer to Miranda, who for the first time in her life wanted to step back, to run away. The woman stepped forward silently watching her until she was at the counter. Miranda leaned her back against it, the woman next to her pulling her coffee close and then picking it up as she leaned forward against it. She took a sip and then breathed a few moments holding the cup in both hands as if taking solace from the porcelain heat. Though the urge to comfort was strong, Miranda knew to resist it. She was the last person who should give support. Miranda waited in silence figuring her discomfort was deserved. Another deep sip and then the woman set the cup down and stepped back holding her arms defensively across her chest.  
  
“We weren’t together, but now we never will be.” Brown eyes searched blue and she tilted her head unsure of her own words. Steeling herself, Miranda revealed nothing in her still water gaze. “I always knew she loved you.” She shook her head and stepped away. Frightened, Miranda felt the urge to follow her, but didn’t dare. She could hear the ice all around her cracking. The woman opened a closet door and took a bag and coat from a hook. Miranda recognized that they were hers and felt the glimmer of escape dawn. Stepping closer again the woman shook her head. “All those years.” Silently Miranda accepted her things. The woman grabbed the coffee pot topping off the cup. Without a glance she stepped toward the door leading back to the stairs and the loft. “I assume you can see yourself out.” The door closed and Miranda heard her going up the steps.  
  
Roy answered on the second dial, but said he was already close. Miranda stepped toward the door ready to go. As the seconds ticked by she repeated what the woman had said over and over. “We weren’t together, but now we never will be,” then, “I always knew she loved you,” and finally “All those years.” Miranda slipped out of the glass door without a glance back and closed her eyes against the pain of the daylight. She was sure that she hadn’t brought sunglasses to an evening art show. Leaning back against the leather seats she contemplated what she knew in an effort to chisel out what she didn’t know.  
  
If they hadn’t been together, then Miranda felt marginally better about whomever she had slept with. It was a woman that much was sure, and somehow this person had been in love with her for years. Miranda tried to go through the names of women that she knew who were of approximately the same age as the artist. Realizing that any one of them could be harboring secret affections, Miranda abandoned that trail of thought. Instead she focused on the evening: Townsend Gallery, Chelsea, eclectic collection of paintings, sculpture, and photography. Miranda had arrived late hoping to miss most of the crowd for the evening. To her surprise, she encountered a party still in full swing. It would seem that the artist’s friends had come to this showing to celebrate and weren’t scurrying off to the bars like so many of their peers would be. Miranda remembered asking for a glass of wine only to be drunkenly told off by someone who could have been either wait staff or party-goer, or perhaps both. “Outta wine, lady. You’ll have to drink up like the rest of us.” He had unceremoniously shoved a tray of shots in her face.  
  
In the back seat of the car, Miranda’s stomach squeezed on itself at the memory of salt and lime.  
  
The woman from this morning had introduced herself and apologized for his rude behavior. They shared another shot to show there were no hard feelings. Then the woman, Lily was her name, had been pulled away. The music got louder while the lights got lower. Miranda twirled around the room basking in the feeling of being a stranger in a crowded room. A bubbling young red head approached her with a tray of shots and idly thinking how she was the opposite of Emily they had toasted and tossed back the shots.  
  
Miranda pressed the cool flatness of her palm against her stomach hoping that they were close to the townhouse.  
  
The crowd was young, lively, friendly and drunk. Looking around Miranda realized she was the oldest one in the room, which called for another shot. Without knowing who she was these artists and friends responded to her like some kind of an elder arts’ guardian or something. From the pulse of the crowd she wouldn’t have been surprised if they had picked her up on their shoulders and paraded her around. Two more well-wishers coaxed her into doing shots, before wickedly pulling her under some mistletoe. A chaste kiss in her generation had morphed into tongues dancing while lips slid slowly and another pair of lips sucked along the back of her neck. Vaguely Miranda had wondered if this was what a college party was like. But then the boys had twirled away and Miranda found herself in need of a seat. Another shot or two perhaps passed her by and then she remembered someone ecstatically crowning her with the Santa Hat.  
  
The car slowed to a stop and Miranda heard Roy stepping out of the car.  
  
She remembered being pulled up until her body was standing flush against the body heat of Andrea Sachs with brown eyes, a deep green sweater, and curves that teased against hers as their breath caught and they looked into each other’s eyes. Miranda remembered the half smile and drunken question, “Miranda, what are you doing here?” Then concern flashed through those eyes and Andrea was pulling her through the people, through the door, up the stairs, and into the room. Andrea Sachs had turned to her in the quiet of the room asking if she was all right, did she need to call Roy.  
  
The car door opened, letting in a cold draft as Miranda slid to the edge and then with Roy’s help stood.  
  
Miranda Priestly remembered kissing, pulling at clothes, falling onto that poor bed, and then blissful body contact. She remembered her fingers trailing down Andrea’s skin and hearing her name moaned in the best possible way. Andrea’s mouth sucked against her skin and Miranda burned the image of her brown eyes looking up at her seductively before she pulled her lips away and tightened her teeth on the already over sensitive nipple. She remembered biting Andrea’s neck hard as she stifled her scream and her inner walls clamped down around Andrea’s fingers. Even now Miranda felt the sticky after effects between her legs and the satisfying pull of her rarely used muscles.  
  
The townhouse was quiet and Miranda dropped her bag on the table by the closet and hung her coat up.  
  
Miranda remembered waking up alone, naked ‘cept for a Santa Hat, discovered by the woman who maybe wasn’t with Andrea, but definitely was in love with her.  
  
The bathroom held its silence as Miranda wretched against her memories and all that went with them.  
  
***  
  
Months passed as they generally did. Shock wore off in the face of excited twins on Christmas morning. Vacation days were spent tending to school projects, visiting grandparents and the twins’ father as well as preparing for a busy start to the year. February to March became a blur of deadlines, airports, and constant revisions as they analyzed and synthesized the new data from the Big Four fashion weeks and battled Irv on the budget. The throb of a headache slowed Miranda down and she could only hope as they began their descent into JFK that it would not become a cold. She might have to track down that attendant coughing for the last seven hours and have her disappear. It was with some satisfaction that she saw her team scrambling for the baggage while she stalked forward to customs leaving it all behind. She was weary.  
  
In a daze Miranda made her way out to the street only to be nearly knocked down as a brown haired woman rushed toward a cab. “Watch it.” Miranda hissed before she could think better of it. The woman came to a stop as if landed with a giant fishhook through her chest. Miranda flexed hoping that she hadn’t caused a confrontation. Fear turned to shock and then stuttered to a stop as the brown eyes now facing hers filled with mirrored fear and shock.  
  
“Miranda.” The word fell from the other woman's lips like a prayer or a plea. The world morphed into some kind of time release movie clip as the world moved on around them in a blur, while they stood stock still on a chilly sidewalk outside New York’s JFK airport. If there was a more ill advised spot for a life-changing moment, Miranda couldn’t think of it.  
  
“Why did you leave?” It was the one question that had plagued her day and night. It was the key to any further speculation. She would never have asked it so plainly, face to face and in the light of day, but her guards weren’t up, her head hurt and she had just survived another Paris fashion week. The words had fallen from her lips where they couldn’t be taken back.  
  
Andrea’s brown eyes closed and twin tears slipped down her face. After all this time Miranda wanted to know why she was not in bed with her that morning. Miranda wanted her. Andrea had run; fearing rejection and the pile of shit she’d have to go through with Lily and it had been for naught. She could have had Miranda and none of that would have mattered.  
  
Angry pedestrians bumped into both of them grumbling their disgust. Car horns were blaring and Miranda finally snapped out of her trance when she heard Roy’s voice shouting from the window of the town car. Miranda didn’t know what Andrea was thinking, but in her mind the tears were regret of some kind and that was enough for her. Pulling Andrea by the hand she opened the door and encouraged her to climb in and scoot over. Roy pulled away shaking his head at his crazy boss not for the last time. He put the privacy screen up, so he could stew over this latest impossible demand.  
  
Emotional walls firmly up, Miranda found that no words would pass her lips. Andrea watched the older woman looking out the window wondering where in the world she should begin in order to… well, begin. Taking Miranda’s hand in her own, she rubbed her palm over the back of Miranda’s reveling in the warmth between them. “I was afraid of so many things, Miranda. I woke up and my life was over. Lily and I were going to try to be together and that was lost to me. There was no way I could go through with our agreement, having been with you. Knowing what you tasted like, how your skin warmed against mine, how throaty your voice got after you came, and feeling my heart fill to over flowing with love. There was no way I could pretend to have a life with her.” Andrea wiped at the tears streaming down her face.  
  
At the pause and shift in Andrea’s position, Miranda turned away from the window to look at her companion. “Why—” Miranda started to ask again, as everything really did come back to the absence in the morning.  
  
Andrea cut her off. “I woke up and began tracing your body with my fingertips.” Tentatively Andrea reached her fingers up and lightly touched Miranda’s hair. “You are so beautiful in the early morning light.” Letting her hand fall she was surprised when Miranda shifted her hand and clasped hers, pulling it into her lap. “I realized that you were probably pretty drunk.” Andrea frowned, “Probably more drunk than I was. I thought you’d be angry, ashamed. I couldn’t take the rejection, not after such a beautiful night.” Andrea whispered the last and Miranda leaned closer to hear her. When Andrea looked up with eyes full of unshed tears into deeply concerned blue eyes, she swallowed hard. They both moved forward at the same time, their lips pressing softly and then again and then firmly as their lips opened further into the kiss.  
  
Leaning her forehead against her lover’s, Miranda whispered. “I was confused, a little angry, but never ashamed, Andrea.” Sighing, she pulled back and searched weepy brown eyes as she considered her words. “Were you ashamed?”  
  
Andrea squeezed Miranda’s hand tighter and tried to pull herself closer, her brown eyes never wavering from Miranda’s. “No.” She shook her head then to emphasize her point. “No, I was never ashamed.” Closing her eyes to guard against the part she did feel poorly about, Andrea admitted. “Lily knew I was in love with you, but I wish it had been different. That was awful.”  
  
Remembering that morning in all of her naked Santa Hat glory and Lily’s pain, Miranda had to agree. “You seem to specialize in spectacularly bad escapes.” She couldn’t resist the smile as Andrea attempted to pull away as they both thought about the way she had walked away in Paris five years before and thrown her phone away.  
  
Squirming at being called on her bad behavior, Andrea pleaded, “Miranda.”  
  
The older woman waited until Andrea settled and looked in her eye once more. “Have you learned from these situations?” She paused while Andrea thought and then nodded the affirmative. “If we are to do this, Andrea.” Miranda leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips to indicate their relationship. “You have to promise to communicate what is going on with you in some way.” Miranda let her gaze hold Andrea communicating just how serious she was about this. It was not negotiable in anyway.  
  
“I promise.” Andrea said pulling Miranda into her arms and inhaling her wonderful scent.  
  
Smiling as they pulled apart, Miranda gently questioned. “Now, where were you going in such a hurry? I was heading home.”  
  
Chuckling, Andrea admitted, “It doesn’t matter now. If I can be so forward, I’d like to head home with you.”  
  
Eyebrows raised at that, Miranda archly asked, “You would? Hmmmm.” Lowering the privacy screen, Miranda addressed Roy. “To the townhouse, please.” She left the screen partially down and pulled Andrea to her snuggling in the back seat. Together they climbed the stairs, simultaneously they pulled their clothes from their bodies, and one after the other they fell asleep with arms and legs tangled, nipples brushing and their mouths close enough to kiss.  
  
**Fin.**  
  
  



End file.
